


The Secret's Cabin

by clgfanfic



Category: The Quest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Morgan is hurt, Quintin learns some of his secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret's Cabin

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Compadres #10.

          The Beaudine brothers rode hard, following the small band of Cheyenne Two Persons thought included their sister, Patricia.

          "Hey, Morgan," Quintin called, quickly correcting his mistake.  "Uh, Two Persons."

          The blond nodded to let his brother know he'd heard.

          "What do you say we stop here for the night?" Quintin asked, indicating a relatively snow-free patch of forest.

          "We still have an hour of daylight," the younger man responded, slowing the buckskin until he matched Quintin's bay.  "I think we should go on."

          "Whatever you say, brother.  You're the Indian."

          Two Persons shot him a glare, but realized that Quintin meant nothing unkind by the remark.  The look did not go unnoticed.

          "Sorry.  Guess I'm still not used to it."

          "Or I you," was the matter-of-fact reply.  "If you want to stop, we will stop and ride hard tomorrow.  The horses could use the rest."

          "I could use the rest," the older Beaudine muttered under his breath as he swung off his bay, missing Two Person's answering grin.

          Quintin followed his brother into the trees and eventually to a protected outcropping that jutted from the side of a hill.  The slab of rock, supported by a large boulder at one end, was a welcome sight.  With luck, it would hold the heat from a small fire and keep them comfortable through the night.

          Tying his horse to a low pine bough, Quintin left enough of the reins free so the bay could paw through the snow and graze.  With that done, he took a moment to survey the terrain.  The Rocky Mountains were rough country, but they possessed a certain beauty he'd be hard pressed to describe with words.  Still, he was thankful they wouldn't be spending the night in the snow.

          Walking into the near-cave, he found the ground dry, if cold.  Two Persons tethered his buckskin, then edged past his brother, dropping his buffalo blanket in the shelter.  The chore done, he disappeared into the trees.

          With nothing better to do, Quintin set to work building what his brother called an "Indian fire."

          He'd just worked the flames into a damned good replica of the small blazes he'd seen Two Persons build when his brother returned carrying two rabbits.

          "You're a constant source of amazement to me, brother," Quintin said, grinning hungrily.

          "Good.  Then you can help me clean them."

          Walking out to help Two Persons, he noticed the animals' bloody skulls.  "How'd you manage this?  I didn't hear any shots."

          "Stones," Two Persons explained.  "And lots of practice.  I missed two before I got the second."

          Quintin smiled.  "I wouldn't care if you pulled them out of a hat, I'm so hungry."  He laughed as Morgan's face pinched into a mask of confusion.

          "Why would I have a rabbit in a hat?" he asked, glancing nervously at Quintin's Stetson.

          "I'll explain over dinner."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          They'd been traveling toward the mountains, the weeks passing quickly as they hunted for any signs of Patricia.  Quintin found his brother quiet on the trail, but more open when they made camp for the night.

          Over the nights Two Persons slowly opened up, explaining more about the way of life he'd lived for the past eight years.  And although Quintin learned much about the Cheyenne, he always felt that the important, personal parts of the story were left out, the parts he needed to hear most in order to understand this new Morgan.

          Now, as they lay across the small fire from each other, full of rabbit and hope, Quintin ventured a quiet question.  "Would you come back to San Francisco with me?"

          There was a short pause.  "Not to settle," came the equally quiet reply.  "But to see where you lived and meet your people, yes."

          "They're your people, too, you know."

          "I know."

          Rolling onto his back, Quintin stared up at the smear of soot on the rock above them and wondered how many other men had laid in the shelter.  The air was cold on his face, an occasional breeze sweeping through and causing his eyes to sting.

          "I think I'd rather stay out here," he said, hoping Morgan was still awake.  "The land is… new.  Clean somehow.  I can help people out here.  Make a difference.  There are lots of doctors in San Francisco."

          When there was no reply, Quintin rolled back onto his side and hiked his blanket up over his ear.  He drifted off to sleep, listening to the distant howl of a hungry wolf.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The weather began to change.  At first Quintin didn't notice, but now he was sure that winter was rapidly approaching and they were apparently no closer to finding Patricia than when they'd started into the foothills.

          Two Persons knew they needed to hole-up for the winter.  The search would be easier on Quintin if they waited until the snows were over, but he was afraid such a suggestion might offend his brother.

          "Hey, Morgan, what're we going to do for the winter?"

          Two Person's blue eyes widened.  Could Quintin read his mind?  He studied his brother.  No, Quintin was just noticing the changes.

          "There's an old cabin about three days from here.  I remember seeing it when we'd pass along this way to the winter camps.  But that was several years ago.  It might be gone."  Two Persons paused, then added, "There is another way."

          "What's that?"

          "There is a Sioux camp about six days away.  We could winter with them, but they will tell the Cheyenne that we are there.  It will make it more difficult to find Patricia in the spring."

          Quintin considered for a moment, then suggested, "Why don't we try the cabin first and if it's not adequate, then we can go on to the camp."

          Two Persons nodded.  It was a wise decision.  He reined the buckskin more to the northwest.

          "The Sioux will let me stay with them?"

          "Yes.  They are friends.  You are my brother.  You can stay."

          "You make it sound so simple."

          "It is simple, Quintin."

          "Not in San Francisco."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Two days later Quintin sat on a half-buried boulder, cleaning a deer Two Persons had brought down on foot, or rather, on snow-shoe.  He shook his head, remembering the sight.  It was something he'd remember and pass down to his children – if he ever had any.

          It had snowed on and off for two days, adding more to the accumulated hard-pack already blanketing the mountainsides and forcing them to lead the horses through the loose drifts.  The going was difficult for them and the animals.  Two Persons finally stopped to fashion snowshoes for them, easing the situation a little.

          Then, early that morning, they came across a young buck, floundering in a drift.  One leg was caught in the branches of a fallen aspen.  Two Persons charged the animal, the large bowie knife flashing into his hand.

          Sensing the danger, the buck thrashed in desperation, working himself deeper into the drift.  Two Persons launched himself with precision, landing on the animal's back, straddling the deer like a horse.

          Grabbing one of the small horns, Two Persons wrestled the deer's head back and to the side, using the knife to slit the neck open.  Blood sprayed onto the snow, staining it a bright red.  Steam from the wound drifted up, entwining the pine boughs.

          Quintin stood, frozen in place, waiting for the animal to trample Two Persons under thrashing hooves as the deer spent the remainder of its life trying to dislodge the instrument of its destruction, but it was too late.  Finally, the buck sank into the drift, his sides heaving before sighing one last time.

          "Damn it, Morgan!"  Quintin yelled.  "You could've gotten yourself killed!"

          "But I didn't, did I?" the blond replied, grinning victoriously.

          Quintin could see the spark of mischief in the younger man's eyes, a look that sparked memories from their childhood, and he grinned back.  "No, you didn't, but I sure thought you might."

          "Now we have fresh meat.  We can smoke it if the cabin's there and eat all winter."

          "Think you can show me that trick?"

          "I don't know, but for now…"  Two Person's climbed off the deer, handing Quintin the knife.  "You start cleaning.  I'll get some boughs to make a drag.  Be careful.  The blood might attract wolves."

          "Great," the dark-haired man grumbled.  "Why do I always get the dirty job?"

          "Because I had the hard part," his brother teased, pulling the small hatchet out of Quintin's saddlebags and heading off to find the boughs he wanted.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _And I'm_ still _working on this damned deer_ , Quintin grouched silently.  _Where's Morgan anyway?_

          He scanned the trees, finding no sign of his brother.

 _Why am I worried?_ he asked himself.  _Morgan's completely at home in the wilderness…_

          A low growl broke into his thoughts and he stood, wondering if his younger brother was playing a trick on him.

 _Maybe it's the wolves_ , he thought, but the growl grew too loud just before a bear shoved its way out of a tangle of snow-ladened pine boughs.

          The animal snarled angrily at Quintin, then lumbered toward the deer, lifting its nose high into the air to confirm the scent of blood.  Catching a stronger scent, the bear growled ominously, jogging stiff-legged toward Quintin and the kill.

          Two Persons, with an arm-load of pine boughs, emerged from the trees to see the bear begin its charge.  The Cheyenne respected and feared the bear, but Two Persons had no time to consider that.  Dropping the boughs, he ran toward the attacking animal, hatchet raised, crying out in his best battle cry.

          Quintin froze as the bear charged, but Morgan's rousing yells released the fear and he scrambled away from the buck.

          Three long steps and Quintin sank into the same drift that had caught the deer.  He fell facedown into the bloody snow, certain he was going to die.

          The deafening roar of the animal filled his ears and Quintin raised his head, wanting to meet his end like a man.  Morgan flew over him, yelling madly.

          Crawling backward as best he could, Quintin watched his brother sail into the side of the bear, catching it with his shoulder.  Although Morgan hit the animal at full force, it didn't upset the bear, but it did stop its charge.

          Two Persons fell into the snow, the bear catching him with a furry paw, lifting the young man off the ground and throwing him several feet.  Red rake marks appeared along his ribs, and Quintin heard the gasp and moan.  Seeing an advantage, the bear lunged again for Two Persons, who raised the hatchet and swung.

          Crawling out of the drift, Quintin ran, half-tripping to his horse.  The animal shied, but he grabbed a trailing rein and pull the bay up.  Wrestling the Sharps out of his saddlebags, Quintin ran back to find Morgan beneath the bellowing bear.

          Raising the revolver, Quintin took aim.  The bear swung a curved paw at Morgan, who brought the hatchet down on the animal's skull.

          Quintin fired.  The bear collapsed.

          "Morgan!"

          Quintin ran to the bear, holding the Sharps out ready to fire again despite his shaking hands.  He kicked the animal's side, but it remained motionless.  Beneath the thick black fur he could see blood-soaked blond hair.

          Shoving the revolver under his belt, Quintin pulled at the animal, but couldn't move it.

          "Hang on, Morgan!"

          He stumbled back to his horse and the rope tied to the saddle.  Leading the squealing animal back, Quintin managed to hold onto the panicking bay and still loop the rope around the bear's neck.

          The bay, more than willing to escape, lunged away, dragging the bear off of Morgan.

 _He's dead_ , Quintin thought, staring at the blood and gore-soaked buckskins.  How much was the bear's and how much was Morgan's was impossible to tell.

          Dropping to his knees, Quintin grasped one of Morgan's shoulder and shook gently.  "Two Persons?"  When there was no reply he shook harder.  "Morgan, say something, damn it!"

          Still nothing.

          Checking for a pulse, Quintin found it rapid but strong.  Returning to the bay that now stood docile and trembling next to Morgan's buckskin, he rummaged in the saddlebags for a clean linen shirt.  It was the same shirt he'd worn when he went to Fort Laramie to see if the blond Cheyenne the army had captured was his brother.  He had worn it to see if his brother was still alive.  He twisted the cloth around his hands.  Now it might be all that kept him that way…

          He returned to find Morgan awake and trying to sit up.

          "Don't move," Quintin snapped.  "There might be something broken."

          "There is nothing broken," Two Persons replied airily, his gaze fixing on the body of the bear.  He slumped back into the snow with a groan.

          "I'm the doctor, remember?" Quintin said, tearing into the shirt with his teeth, then ripping it into strips.

          "I'm all right," Two Persons said weakly as his brother bound his wounds.  "We have to take the meat and leave.  Wolves, maybe other bears, will be drawn by the blood."

          "We have to get to that cabin," Quintin countered, praying silently that it was in good condition.  Morgan was going to need rest, and he was going to have to clean the wounds…

          "But—"

          "I'll come back for the meat."

          "It will not be here," Two Persons argued as he forced himself back up.  "I will sit and make the drag, you cut the meat and skin the bear."

          "But, Morgan—"

          "I'm numb all over.  While that is so, I'll be fine," he met his brother's worried gaze.  "But we should hurry."

          Quintin nodded, helping his brother to stand.  Morgan was right.  They would need the meat.

          They moved closer to the horses, past the still form of the bear.  Quintin felt his brother tremble.  Sweeping the snow off a flat rock, Morgan lowered himself down.

          Retrieving the hatchet, Quintin delivered it and the boughs before returning to work on the deer.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          An hour later the drag was ready.  Quintin transferred the deer meat and bear skin to the woven boughs while Morgan used the hatchet to remove the bear's paws and snout.  That done, large slabs of bear meat joined the stash.

          Moving stiffly toward his horse, Two Persons stopped short, lightheadedness forcing him to his knees.

          Quintin knelt down, checking the chest and thigh wounds.

"Come on," he said, helping his brother to his feet.  "Let's get to that cabin before we both freeze to death."

          "Yes," Morgan agreed.  "I am cold."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The sun had just set when Quintin sighted the grey smoke from the cabin's chimney.  He glanced at Morgan, who was slumped across the tired buckskin's neck, semi-conscious and alternating between chills and fever.

          Dismounting, Quintin grabbed the Sharps from his belt, then helped Morgan down.  Holding his brother up with an arm around his waist, Quintin shuffled to the door.

          Centering the gun at chest height, Quintin delivered several resounding kicks to the heavy wood.  The door opened, revealing a grizzled old man dressed in buckskins.  Long grey hair fell over his shoulders in twin braids, an equally grey beard reached mid-way to the man's belly.

          "Well," the old man said in a kindly, deep voice.  "Put that damned gun down and bring 'im in before he freezes or bleeds to death."

          Quintin hesitated, but lowered the gun.  The man stepped forward, helping to support Morgan as they maneuvered inside.

          Together they half-carried Morgan over to a narrow bed near the roaring fireplace and laid him down.

          "I'll take care of your horses," the old man said quietly and left.

          Looking around, Quintin spotted a barrel of water.  Grabbing an iron pot from a hook near the fire, he filled it with water and placed it over the flames to boil.

          Taking Morgan's knife from its sheath, he carefully cut the bandages off, then set to work on the buckskins.  That done, he untied the blond's medicine necklace, removing it, but laying it on the pillow.

          Naked, Morgan's body glowed an eerie red-orange in the firelight.  Blood oozed from the narrow furrows, and he trembled with chills and fever.

          The door flew open, the old man re-entering with an armload of wood, which he tossed into a waiting box next to the hearth.  Closing the door, he moved across the room to a large chest, and after rummaging for a moment, removed a package wrapped in brown paper.

          "Here," he said to Quintin.  "Use these."

          Quintin took the package and tore it open, noticing the paper was brittle with age.  Several linen napkins and a large table cloth waited inside.

          "Thanks," he said, immediately cutting the tablecloth into serviceable bandages.

          Cleaning the wounds with the warm water revealed swollen and red furrows.

          Turning to the old man, who sat watching as he smoked his pipe, Quintin asked, "Do you have any alcohol?"

          "Whiskey?"

          "That'll do," he replied, turning back to Morgan.

          The old man rose and shuffled off, returning a moment later with a large half-full jug.  "Here you go."

          "My name's Quintin, Quintin Beaudine," he said, accepting the jug.  "This is my brother, Morgan Beaudine, but he goes by Two Persons."

          "Cheyenne?" the old man asked, reaching out to study the medicine necklace.

          "Yes," Quintin admitted, pouring some of the whiskey onto one of the napkins and cleaning the wounds a second time.  "How'd you know?"

          "Spent some time with 'em myself," he explained.  "You can call me Tell."

          Morgan stiffened and groaned as Quintin poured some of the whiskey directly over his torn flesh.  The blue eyes fluttered open, but he didn't move or cry out.

          Quintin finished as quickly as he dared, then bandaged his brother's injuries before he asked quietly, "You doing all right?"

          "Yes," Two Persons replied through half-gritted teeth.

          Tell chuckled, a deep warm sound that filled the small cabin.  "He's got the oats, that's for sure."

          "Well," Quintin announced, "I'm not quite finished yet."

          Moving Two Persons to a seated position, Quintin bound his ribs, forcing a sharp intake of breath from his brother.

          "Broken?" Tell asked.

          "Looks like they're bruised, maybe cracked," Quintin explained.

          Helping Two Persons lie back down, Quintin cleaned the last of the claw marks on his scalp, then watched as he drifted into unconsciousness or sleep.

          A fine film of sweat broke out across Morgan's body.  It wasn't a good sign.  Infection had already set in.  Quintin leaned back against the cabin wall and worried about possible internal injuries.

          Morgan moaned quietly in his sleep.

          Tell rested a hand on Quintin's shoulder, and he blinked and looked up at the old man.  Tell held out a thick wool blanket.

          Accepting it, Quintin covered Morgan, then handed the jug back to Tell.  "Thanks."

          "Might as well put some of that in ya," Tell told him.  "Looks like you could use it."

          "I could," Quintin admitted, accepting a cup from the old man.  "But he might need it later."

          "I got another jug," Tell told him.  "'Sides, I could use a swallow or two myself."

          The pair sat, metal cups filled with the strong amber liquid.

          "Mighty lucky that wasn't a griz you ran into.  How'd you get his attention?"

          Quintin started, slowly at first, but soon found himself giving Tell a detailed account of his life since he'd received the telegram in San Francisco, telling him that his brother might still be alive.

          Tell listened patiently for almost two hours as Quintin spoke.  He could sense the young man's need to tell someone what had happened to him over the last few months.  He also enjoyed a good story, and this was one of the better he'd heard in years.

          "Your brother's a brave man," Tell said when Quintin finished with an account of the harrowing ride to the cabin.  "Strong, too.  Don't fret."

          "I can't help it," Quintin said.  "It wouldn't be fair to lose him now.  I just found him."

          "Not many who'd take on a bear, even a juvenile, with just a hatchet and live to tell it."

          "I still can't believe he did that.  It was a crazy stunt, but he probably saved my life."

          Tell could see the exhaustion in Quintin's face, and took the empty cup from him.  "Get some sleep.  I'll set with him.  Won't be the first time.  I'll wake ya if needs be."

          "All right," Quintin agreed.  "I could use the sleep."

          "There's a bunk in there," the old man said, pointing to a quilt blanket curtain that separated a small room from the rest of the cabin.

          "Thank you," Quintin said, standing and shuffling off.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Tell sat in his chair next to the fire, whittling a piece of wood, working the natural bumps into an eagle.  Nearby, Two Persons tossed feverishly.  A stifled moan broke the silence.

          Tell laid the wood aside to check the boy.  Drenched in sweat, Two Persons' skin burned with fever.  Laying a hand on the damp forehead, he frowned.

          Removing an old Indian blanket from his chair, he covered Two Persons with it.  Catching a mumble of Cheyenne, Tell knew the young man was dreaming about the bear.

          "Easy," Tell said softly.  "It's all right now."

          The words seemed to calm Two Persons and Tell returned to his chair and his whittling.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          An hour after sunrise, Quintin stepped into the main part of the cabin, stretching.

          Cooking over the fire, Tell looked over his shoulder, saying, "Mornin'.  Better check your brother.  He's been building a fever all night."

          Immediately awake, Quintin crossed to Morgan and sat down on the edge of the bunk.  Reaching out, he felt his brother's forehead.

          "You're right, and it's a good one.  I don't want to, but I might have to pack snow around him to break the fever."

          "It's not healthy," Tell replied, not looking up from his pot.

          "I know," Quintin said, checking Morgan's pulse.  "It's a good way to get pneumonia, but I can't let the fever get out of hand either."

          "I know a fair bit of tendin' ails," Tell said.  "I got something here that might help."

          "Indian medicine?" Quintin asked.

          "Yep," Tell said, standing.  "They've got a cure for just about everything.  Figure it's worth tryin', look—"

          "How long they've been around," Quintin finished.  "I've heard Morgan's opinion on the subject a few times."

          "Well, he's right.  So let's see if some Indian medicine'll cure this here Indian."

          He removed the pot and dipped out some of the contents into a cup.  While the liquid cooled, Quintin removed the bandages, finding some of claw marks red, swollen, and tender to the touch.  "Sure hope mortification doesn't set in," he said as removed the last of the linen bandages.

          "Almost ready," Tell said, blowing into the cup, then setting it aside.

          "I hope it works," Quintin added.

          "Me, too," Tell said as he carried several poultices he'd prepared over.

          After they recovered the wounds with bandages soaked in the liquid, Tell handed the cup to Quintin.  The odor rising from the almost cold liquid was faintly familiar, but he couldn't place it.

          "If you can get that into him, it'll help."

          Quintin lifted his brother's head, then poured small sips across Two Persons lips.  The familiar taste brought the injured man around, and Quintin was able to get the contents of the cup into him without much trouble.

          "Probably get worse a'fore it gets better," Tell said as he headed for the small alcove.  "I'm gonna get me a nap."

          Quintin nodded, then settled into a long wait.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Tell woke about six hours later and spelled Quintin, who could only nap.  By mid-afternoon the fever peaked and Morgan tossed restlessly, mumbling in a broken stream of Cheyenne.

          Quintin paced through the small space.  "Can you make out what he's saying?"

          "Most of it," Tell replied as he sat, working on his whittling.

          "Well?"

          "Mostly things about his family," Tell explained, not looking up.

          "Ma and Pa?" Quintin asked as he forced himself to pull up a second chair and light.

          "No," Tell told him.  "His Indian family – a wife and son."

          "Son?" Quintin's eyes widened.  "He never mentioned a son."

          "Shiao, no!"  Two Persons called out, tossing roughly.

          "Easy," Quintin said, dipping a napkin into the water barrel, wringing it out and laying it on Morgan's forehead.

          "You know this Shiao?" Tell asked.

          "Yeah, we ran into him in Cheyenne," Quintin said.  "He was killed."

          "He's been talkin' a lot about 'im.  If your brother wanted ya to know this, I think he would've told ya."

          Quintin looked up, a hurt expression in his eyes.  "He's… reserved, and we're still getting to know each other.  It's like he can't find the words sometimes.  I love my brother, but I don't understand him."

          Tell nodded.  "I suppose if'n a stranger knows, a brother oughta.  He's been talkin' about an attack on his camp.  The one when he was captured is my guess.  He's rememberin' the killin' and the dyin'."

          "Little Deer, his wife.  She died in that raid."

          Tell nodded.  "This Shiao character saw your brother tryin' to help his wife outta the camp, but she was movin' slow 'cause of the child.  Shiao wanted a blond scalp most likely, but Little Deer stepped in and saved your brother."

          Tell laid the wood and knife aside.  Leaning forward in his chair, he stared into the fire, remembering familiar scenes.  "One of the soldiers ordered 'im captured, seein' how he was white.  Shiao must 'a been plenty mad, bein' cheated out of a blond scalp.  He cut her dress open…"

          "You don't have to finish," Quintin whispered.

          "She was small… and beautiful… like a wild flower," Two Persons whispered.

          "Two Persons," Quintin said, turning to face his brother.  "I'm sorry.  I should've let you tell me in your own time."

          "I have wanted to tell you, but I haven't known how."  He paused, gathering his strength before continuing.  "When Shiao saw he couldn't use her breasts for tobacco pouches for the soldiers, he cut her open… and removed our child… our son."

          "I'm so sorry," Quintin said, allowing himself to feel a part of his brother's pain.

          Two Persons saw it and smiled to himself.  It was good that Quintin shared his grief and loss.  He was truly a brother to him.  _And_ , Two Persons reminded himself, _I am not alone any more_.

          "Get some sleep now," Quintin told him.

          Two Persons nodded, then looked to Tell, speaking briefly in Cheyenne.  Finished, his eyes closed.

          "What'd he say?" Quintin asked.

          "He thanked me for the medicine."

          "Oh," Quintin replied, disappointed.

          The old man's eyes twinkled.  "And told me to watch out for his brother."

 The End


End file.
